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    Summary

    “That looks foul,” Harrow said, of Gideon’s clear plastic cup. The drink was a pale, muddy brown, slightly foamy on top, and had a lime wedge floating in it. The lime had been cut very badly, probably with a dull knife. There was a ragged tail of pith hanging on to one side. Harrow pursed her lips in disgust.

    “It’s a Jägerita,” said Gideon, as if that was a rebuttal. “Have a drink, Harrow. Or don’t, and just try and find an ounce of organic chill for once in your life.”

    Harrow gave her a good shove with one hand on her shoulder, not really putting too much behind it, but Gideon swayed with it gamely like they’d choreographed it. She bounced back upright like one of those sign standees with sand packed into the base.

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